


you and me and a bottle of wine

by Vaynglory



Series: the lord of murder shall perish [1]
Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: Banter, Bisexual Character, D&D 5th Edition Lore, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Mutual Pining, Nonbinary Character, Other, specifically with regards to elf gender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-11 18:31:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19932589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaynglory/pseuds/Vaynglory
Summary: Imoen leans across the table conspiratorially. “Hey, Xan. Did I ever tell you about the time Ceru found a cursed belt?”(A rainy night at the Burning Wizard: while sharing stories over a few drinks, Ceru finds herself growing closer to a certain elven enchanter - and perhaps learning a thing or two about herself.)





	you and me and a bottle of wine

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set sometime around chapter 3 of Baldur's Gate. My characterization of Xan and Imoen owes a lot to the [BG1 NPC Project mod](https://www.gibberlings3.net/mods/npcs/bg1npc/), but hopefully they're still recognizable to those who haven't played with it.
> 
> I also reference some lore from the 5th Edition of Dungeons and Dragons, namely the concepts of [elven gender and sex fluidity](https://comicbook.com/gaming/2018/03/14/dungeons-and-dragons-genderfluid-elves/) as introduced in _Mordenkainen's Tome of Foes,_ as well as the idea of elves choosing their own names when they reach adulthood.
> 
> My Charname/Bhaalspawn, Ceru, is a chaotic good half-elven barbarian who I've written more about [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19788163) While she is assigned female at birth and uses she/her pronouns (hence the F/M tag), Ceru is nonbinary; I wanted to explore that a little in this fic in light of the above-mentioned 5e elf gender lore. Obviously a fantasy world won't use all the same terminology as modern-day Earth to talk about sex and gender, but I've done my best to describe it in an inclusive, respectful way. If I've screwed up anywhere, or something warrants further explanation, please let me know!
> 
> Title is from ["Save Tonight"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nntd2fgMUYw) by Eagle-Eye Cherry.

Beregost is a welcome sight after weeks of trudging up and down the Sword Coast at the mercy of the elements, the wildlife both mundane and monstrous, and the seemingly endless roving gangs of bandits. The latest skirmish with one such mob had been a rough one; Minsc had taken a barbed arrow to the shoulder that he’s still not fully recovered from, Viconia suffered some (thankfully minor) burns from failing to move out of the way of one of Neera’s fireballs in time, and Xan is nursing a black eye from a bandit mage’s quarterstaff blow.

The enchanter also seems to have picked up a cold along the way and has been complaining even more bitterly about this than his injuries, if such a thing is even possible. (Though Ceru is beginning to think that Xan may actually be happiest when he has something to complain about. At the very least he’s certainly more animated in those moments, those elegant hands of his waving about in the air as he gestures, a flush of colour bringing life to those gaunt, pale cheeks. Not that she’s been looking, mind you. Not in the slightest.)

“In the Underdark, you would be fodder for the kuo-toa,” Viconia is grumbling at him as they wade through the large puddle that was formerly Beregost’s main thoroughfare. “And I would be glad of it, because then I would not have to endure your constant whining.”

“No one asked for your opinion,” Xan says waspishly, huddled into his cloak against the wind and rain.

Viconia scowls. “And no one asked for your non-stop litany of complaints about every minor inconvenience, _darthiir_. Yet we are forced to listen to it anyway.”

“ _Every_ minor inconvenience? Oh, I’ve barely begun to list them.” Xan coughs into the sleeve of his robe. “There are many subjects I haven’t even begun to complain about. Such as, for instance, the presence of a certain irritating drow who insists on picking fights at every opportunity—”

“Will you two _be quiet?”_ someone shouts. From the way the entire party turns to stare at Ceru, she realizes it must have been her. _Shit_. She usually has a much tighter rein on her emotions than this; given her tendency towards blind rage on the battlefield, it's a necessity. “I’m sorry. That was… uncalled for.”

Xan glances up at her, his expression softening. “No, you are right. Carrying on like this does none of us any good. We are all tired and cold and injured; ‘tis small wonder tempers are beginning to fray.” He sniffles miserably, rubbing at his nose with the back of his hand. “The sooner we get out of this gods-forsaken rain, though, the better.”

Viconia mutters something in the dark elven tongue – be it insult or apology, Ceru hasn’t known the drow priestess long enough to be sure, but the sour expression on her face as she walks on ahead of the others suggests the former.

They move on quickly after that, collecting the bounty for the latest bunch of bandit scalps and then heading straight to the Burning Wizard. It’s become Ceru’s favoured tavern whenever they stop in Beregost – the rooms are quality enough when you can get them, the ale is cheap, and no one’s actually tried to murder her there yet. (There was that halfling fellow who’d picked her pocket one time, but as Imoen had said, it was her own fault for letting him close enough to do so in the first place.)

Imoen arranges payment for rooms and food and they all retire to one of the upstairs common rooms. Dinner at the Burning Wizard is a simple affair, just stew and bread, but it’s hot and filling and sorely needed after the day’s adventuring in such miserable weather. The storm’s still raging on, rain rattling against the roof and near drowning out the musical stylings of the bard from downstairs, but inside the tavern it’s warm and dry and Ceru is beginning to rethink the wisdom of ever going outdoors again. Clearly, it’s just a bad idea.

Dynaheir, ever studious, retires to her room shortly after dinner to pore over her spellbooks. Viconia, too, keeps to herself that night, not yet comfortable enough in the presence of her newfound companions to linger over drinks. Neera makes the foolish decision to try and match Minsc drink for drink and pays the price; Minsc carries her to the room she’s sharing with Viconia to let her pass out in peace before he bids them all a good night, saying Boo needs his beauty sleep.

Ceru and Imoen aren’t ready to call it a night just yet, though. They’re sharing a jug of Tanagyr’s Stout between them and there’s still a decent amount left. (Imoen, ever an innkeeper’s daughter, considers it almost sacrilegious to waste good drink. Ceru concurs.) Xan also seems unwilling to relinquish his spot in front of the fire. He’s wrapped up in his spare cloak as though it’s a blanket, his legs tucked underneath him, warming his hands on a hot mug of mulled winter wine. While the others have been sharing stories for the last few hours, he hasn’t yet volunteered any of his own, and as much as Ceru longs to know more about the elven enchanter she hasn’t yet pressed him for any.

Imoen leans across the table conspiratorially. “Hey, Xan. Did I ever tell you about the time Ceru found a cursed belt?”

 _Oh no_. “Not that story!” Ceru blurts out. “I-I mean. That is. I don’t think he’d be interested in that—”

“Oh? Cursed items are something of an interest of mine,” Xan says, his long, pointed ears twitching with barely disguised curiosity. “I am an enchanter, after all.”

 _A gossipmonger, more like,_ thinks Ceru. She hadn’t known Xan was so nosy. Then again, he is both a mage and a scholar; she’s never met anyone more incurably inquisitive than those two particular categories of people.

“Go on, then. Tell him about the damned belt,” Ceru sighs, and turns to Xan. “But… be warned, this story doesn’t exactly paint me in the best of lights. I’d hate to ruin any illusions you might be harbouring about the intelligence of your fearless leader,” she says with a wry smile.

“I shall do my very best to avoid casting judgement.” Xan sips delicately at his mulled wine, blowing on the hot drink to cool it. “I have certainly had my own share of ill-advised adventures in my time, after all.” And if _that_ doesn’t spark her curiosity – but Ceru doesn’t get to enquire further, because Imoen is already launching into her story with her usual enthusiasm.

“So here’s me ‘n Ceru fresh outta Candlekeep, on our way to the Friendly Arm Inn, when what should we come across but an ogre!” Imoen says, scrunching her face in imitation of the ogre’s fearsome grimace. She’s always had a certain dramatic flair when it comes to telling stories, especially ones that are embarrassing for Ceru; this one is apparently no exception. “Actually, he sprang up on us while we were looking for somewhere to make camp for the night. Awfully rude of him, don’t you think?”

“Unforgivably so.”

“I was just minding my business, trying to catch us a rabbit for dinner while Ceru was off chopping firewood, and then bam! Ogre. And I was like, AAAGGHHH! And he was like, GRRRRR! And then Ceru charged over like RAAAGHH! and did her whole barbarian thing, you know, like she does.” Imoen mimes swinging a longsword.

“She does it very well, yes,” Xan says, completely deadpan. Ceru can’t quite tell if he’s making fun of her or not. (Imoen is absolutely making fun of her, but as Ceru’s oldest friend she’s earned the right.)

“And then she clobbered him right in the face, _wham!_ I’ve never seen her move so fast. Well, except for that time I put a cricket in her bedroll—”

“That was _YOU?!”_ Ceru sits bolt upright, almost spilling her ale. “Wait, why am I surprised? Of course it was you.”

Imoen giggles. “Anyway, we killed him and looted his corpse,” she says cheerfully. “And this ogre – I tell you, he must’ve had a leather fetish or something. He had like three belts around his waist, and these big leather wrist cuffs, and another belt around each thigh. _Thigh belts,_ Xan.”

“It’s _fashion,"_ says Ceru, who privately sort of likes thigh belts even if they are unnecessary.

“It’s _tacky,"_ says Imoen, who is wearing no less than three different shades of purple at once and therefore has absolutely no room to judge. “And the other stuff was ogre-sized and sort of badly made anyway, but the thigh belts turned out to be just regular person-sized belts when we took them off. So then Ceru immediately puts one of them on, because that’s what you do with stuff you loot off a dead ogre—”

“It was a nice belt!” Ceru protests. “And _you_ put on that necklace you found in his pocket.”

“I did, didn’t I? But the necklace wasn’t cursed.” Imoen sticks her tongue out at her.

A strangled little sound emerges from Xan that _might_ be a laugh. Or perhaps he’s just clearing his throat. “And the curse?”

“Well, we didn’t find out about the curse until Ceru got up to pee the next morning—”

“Do you have to phrase it like _that?"_ Ceru groans.

“Sorry, to _answer the call of nature,_ or whatever you fancy elfy types say,” says Imoen. “Only to find that not only could she not get her pants down, but the plumbing had been rearranged, if you get my meaning.”

Xan raises an eyebrow. “I, ah, I’m not entirely sure I do…”

“It was a sex change belt,” says Ceru, covering her now bright red face with her hands. “I’m sure I don’t need to go into detail.”

“And because of the nature of such cursed items, once equipped, it was unable to be removed by non-magical means,” Xan says. “Oh dear. I see.”

Imoen is enjoying this entirely too much. “Ceru had that thing on for a week and a half, ‘til we finally got to the Temple of Wisdom by the Friendly Arm and got the priestess there to remove it. She was sprouting a pretty impressive beard by then.”

“You’re just jealous you can’t grow one too.” Ceru looks down her nose at her as haughtily as she can, trying to recover some of her dignity.

“Suuuure. A face full of itchy stubble, just what every girl wants,” Imoen says, and yawns hugely. “I’m gettin’ sleepy. Gonna call it a night – don’t you two stay up too late, okay?” She knocks back the last dregs of ale in her tankard, plants a kiss on the top of Ceru’s head, and leaves.

With Imoen gone, the room is much quieter, the fire crackling in the hearth and the rain outside the only sounds to be heard. Ceru finishes the last of her ale, trying to decide between getting another drink or going to bed as well.

“Imoen is… very lively,” Xan says, breaking the sudden silence.

“I think you mean insufferable,” Ceru says, and then laughs. “No, I don’t mean that. She’s a handful, but she’s as good as family to me, you know?”

“Yes, one could almost mistake the two of you for sisters,” says Xan with not a trace of irony. “So did this adventure teach you the value of identifying the properties of magical items _before_ you equip them, young Ceru?”

Gods, he sounds exactly like her old tutors at Candlekeep; Ceru would almost be annoyed if he didn’t make it look so good. With those regal features and fine-boned hands, Xan looks the very picture of an elven scholar lecturing some young, foolish apprentice. Or he would, if he wasn’t cocooned in his cloak and still sporting a fading bruise around one eye.

“Oh yes. Definitely,” she says hastily. “And I have you to identify things for me now, don’t I?”

And just like that, Xan’s mood turns sour again. “Do not get too used to it,” he says, with a weary sigh. “I will not be here forever, after all; once the iron crisis is resolved, we will have to go our separate ways once more.” He stares morosely into the bottom of his empty mug, pale lips curved downwards in a frown.

 _Oh, well done, Ceru. You made the pretty mage sad,_ she berates herself mentally. Out loud she says, “Another drink?”

“Seldarine, _yes,"_ says Xan.

She grabs their empty drinking vessels and takes them back down to the bar, ordering another round for the two of them. On a whim, Ceru opts for the winter wine herself this time; there’s something cozy and oddly nostalgic about drinking mulled wine on a cold night. She hands Xan one of the mugs as she comes back to their seat at the fireplace. “Hope more of the same is all right?” she says, sliding back into the armchair beside him.

“Thank you,” Xan murmurs gratefully, his cloak slipping from his shoulders as he raises his hand to take the offered drink from Ceru’s grasp; their fingers brush against each other ever so gently as he does. He shivers and tugs the cloak tighter around his shoulders, taking a deep drink from his mug of wine.

Ceru takes a moment to breathe deeply, savouring the way the scents of cinnamon, cloves and oranges mingle on the air, before taking a sip of her own wine. It’s sweet and tart and spicy all at once, strong but not overpoweringly so, and it lingers on her tongue with a pleasant aftertaste. The mulled wine old Winthropp used to make back in Candlekeep for Deadwinter Day was better, but not by much.

They sit for a while in comfortable silence, enjoying the wine and the warmth of the fireplace. Ceru stares into the fire, watching the flickering motion of the flames; at some point, from the corner of her eye, she notices Xan watching her. “Something on your mind?”

Xan glances away almost shyly, then meets her gaze. “I was simply wondering how you might look with a beard,” he says with a smile.

Ceru nearly inhales her mouthful of wine. “Oh, now you are definitely making fun of me,” she protests once she’s done coughing.

“Not at all,” says Xan, patting her back soothingly. “It is just that… I sometimes forget you are half-elven.”

She looks at him quizzically for a moment, before realization sets in. “Oh! Elves don’t grow facial hair at all, do they?” Ceru laughs. “It must sound very strange to you, then. A half-elf barbarian with a beard.”

A soft smile plays on the corners of Xan’s mouth, his face aglow in the warm firelight. “Oh, I have seen many stranger things by far, and few that I would so gladly look upon.” He takes another sip of his drink. A flush has begun to spread across Xan’s face, highlighting the curves of his high cheekbones and the bridge of his nose; whether it’s from the wine or the warmth of the fire or something else entirely, Ceru finds it entirely charming.

“Beard and all?” she says, only half joking. “I still have that belt, you know.”

“And you would look most handsome in it, I am sure,” Xan says, with – oh, that’s definitely a blush. Ceru’s stomach seems to have tied itself in knots; this conversation’s fast moving towards uncharted territory.

“Handsome? I think I like the sound of that,” she manages to say, taking a deep drink to hide her embarrassment, feeling her own face start to burn.

Xan’s looking at her with a curious expression, dark eyes shining in the firelight. “Some elves have the ability to change their sexual characteristics at will, you know,” he says, as casually as if he were talking about the weather. “They need simply meditate on it for a night, and their forms will change in accordance with their wishes.”

“Really?” says Ceru, ears quirking upwards. She’s always been eager to learn more about the elven side of her heritage; the history books in Candlekeep could only teach her so much. Certainly they never mentioned _this,_ a subject which she finds is… important to her, in a way she doesn’t quite understand yet.

“Indeed.” Xan nods. “Some say ‘tis a gift from the Protector, Corellon Larethian, who made our race. That in the beginning Corellon himself was an androgynous being, neither male nor female yet encompassing aspects of both. That we, his creations, were once mutable beings both in form and in spirit, and some are still blessed with this fluidity in some small measure.”

Ceru’s eyes are wide. “Are you…?”

“I am not one so blessed, no,” Xan says. “This form has always been enough for my purposes. Not that the physical body one is granted is always an accurate reflection of the mind and soul inside, of course. Many elves feel the sex assigned to them from birth does not match their inner nature; that is one reason we do not choose our true names until adulthood, so that young elves have plenty of time to come to an understanding of themselves.”

And there’s that scholarly lecturing tone of his again, but Ceru finds she doesn’t mind it; he’s always so patient and gentle when explaining things to her, and his voice is pleasantly soothing. He would have made a good teacher, she thinks. “I… thank you, Xan. For explaining,” she says awkwardly.

“There is no need,” he says, raising his hand to cover a yawn which quickly turns into a cough. “But alas, I must retire for the night. We’ve miles to go tomorrow, and I am still regrettably under the weather.” As Xan gets to his feet, he staggers forward suddenly, almost pitching over face-first onto the carpet.

Ceru is up in a flash, catching Xan around the waist and gently tilting him back upwards, steadying him until he’s able to stand again. “Xan! Are you all right?”

Xan groans softly. “I think that wine may have gone to my head a little more than usual.”

She’s never actually seen him drink this much; with his slight frame, not to mention that cold he’s still getting over, it’s no wonder he’s feeling the effects. “You’re unwell, it’s not surprising. Perhaps we should stay in town another day before moving on.”

He shakes his head. “We cannot afford any delays. Who knows what the Iron Throne are planning—”

“Whatever it is, it can wait,” Ceru says. “We all could use a rest.” She’s not budging on the subject, and one look at Xan’s face tells her he’s decided not to press the issue. As he glances away suddenly, she realizes for the first time how close they are; they’re almost nose to nose in the flickering firelight, her arm still around his waist.

“Ceru, I—” he begins.

“We should—” she says at the same time, then pauses. “What were you going to say?”

He flushes right to the tips of his ears. “Nothing. Just an idle fancy, nothing more. I have said more than I should tonight,” he says, unable to meet her eyes. “Forgive an old man his foolish ramblings.”

“You’re not _that_ old,” Ceru says. “But… it’s late, and we should both rest. Let me walk you to your room?”

“It is only down the hall,” Xan mutters in protest, but he leans in against Ceru’s side as she guides him down the hall with a hand on the small of his back. As he stops with a hand on the door of his room, he looks up at her fondly. “Good night, _lirimaer."_

“Good night,” Ceru whispers as he turns to leave, not even registering the elvish endearment until she’s gone to bed herself; she doesn’t know what it means, but it warms her heart all the same. As the rain beats down on the roof and sleep rises up to claim her, she thinks: _perhaps I’ll ask him what it means tomorrow._

**Author's Note:**

> Language notes:
> 
>  _darthiir:_ Deep Drow for "surface elf" or "traitor"; the two concepts are apparently synonymous.
> 
>  _lirimaer:_ "lovely one". Like Xan's writer for the BG1 NPC Project mod and the [Xan for BG2](http://www.pocketplane.net/mambo/index.php?option=content&task=blogcategory&id=164&Itemid=113) mod, I've chosen to use Tolkien's Elvish for some of Xan's dialogue: partly because the few D&D Elvish glossaries I've been able to find are quite lacking in terms of things like endearments, and partly because D&D Elvish is heavily cribbed from Sindarin/Quenya in any case.


End file.
